Beware the Jabberwock
by bleargh
Summary: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's daughter. (S/B)
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (1/?)   
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis   
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com   
SITE: http://www.verticalcrawl.com/mostly   
ARCHIVE: My site, or anyone else's if you ask.   
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah. Bring it on.   
DISCLAIMER: We are mere figments of Joss Whedon's imagination. Get used to it.   
RATING: R   
PAIRING: S/B-ish, bad case of angst.   
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.   
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's  
daughter.   
NOTE: This story is going to be *long*. This first part wasn't beta'ed or even  
spell-checked, and written drunk and tired to boot. My apologies.   
  
  
  
"Beware the Jabberwock" (1/?)   
  
  
  
01.   
  
  
There's nothing sadder than a poorly fed idiot.   
  
Sitting on the counter, I wipe my mouth with a disgusted hand, peering down at the  
dying convenience store clerk on the dirty linoleum bellow me. Truth is, I can't even  
finish my meal; his blood tasted awful. Too thin, too pale - a sloppy kill by all  
accounts. He'll have to just die now, I'm certainly not finishing him up. Such is fate,  
buddy. I don't know what you did to deserve getting only half-drained then left for  
dead. There's no dignity. It's worst than a stab in the back. It's pure disinterest from  
the undead, which you have to admit is a new low, eh pal?   
  
Bored, I swing my legs around to the other side of the counter and look around me at  
the deserted store. A pinball machine trills its little music annoyingly in the far back,  
and somewhere to my left an automatic coffee machine starts a fresh pot. Still a bit  
peckish, I grab a Twinkie and jump off my perch.   
  
"Ripe for the picking..." Pastry in mouth, I grab a plastic bag and stroll about the  
aisles, selected random items for the roadtrip ahead. Chocolate, some juice and  
ready-made sandwiches usually do the trick. I grab a few packs of smokes on my  
way out.   
  
The door closes behind me with a dingle of its bell, and I find myself in the cool night  
air once again. Can't see the moon behind all the clouds, and the atmosphere has an  
icky feel to it. The neon lights above me buzz and light my old Ford Meteor in a way  
that makes the aged paint look like a negative of my chipped fingernails. It faintly  
glows of a yellowed white, bearing the marks of too many miles spent on  
unmaintained back roads. Highways are so dull. Routes have scenery, and truck  
stops, planted here and there like candy machines for me.   
  
I turn around and wander to the side of the building. I reach a gray door with a  
weathered washroom sign. I knock.   
  
"You done in there?"   
  
Comes her voice, "Almost." I hear a clunk.   
  
I frown, stifling a yawn. "What are you doing?"   
  
"I need help..." her muffled voice admits sheepishly. I chuckle and walk in.   
  
My pet is standing on the toilet lid, facing the mirror above the sink, fingers clawing at  
a braid against her shoulder. "What's wrong?" I pick up the dropped brush from the  
ground and the dirty clothes she changed out of.   
  
"I can't get the elastic band off..."   
  
I dump the clothes and brush in her opened bag at my feet. A moment later the  
offensive hairtie is thrown in the garbage can along with a knotted chunk of blonde  
hair. I give her loose hair a vigourous shake. "There. All pretty. You ready, princess?"  
  
Back on the road, I put on Tom Waits and my passenger and I sing along loudly. An  
hour later, she is asleep on her colouring book.   
  
  
  
TBC 


	2. "Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)

TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)   
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis   
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com   
SITE: http://www.verticalcrawl.com/mostly   
ARCHIVE: My site, or anyone else's if you ask.   
FEEDBACK: Hell yeah. Bring it on.   
DISCLAIMER: We are mere figments of Joss Whedon's imagination. Get used to it.   
RATING: this part, G.   
PAIRING: S/B, bad case of angst.   
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.   
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's  
daughter.   
  
NOTE:   
I really hate how I wrote part 1. The rewrite wasn't going very well so I just dropped  
it. Might have a look at it later on. Part two was beta'd by my friend Donna, english  
major extraordinaire. Let's hope for the best, eh?   
  
  
  
  
"Beware the Jabberwock" (2/?)   
  
  
  
  
"Here it is."   
  
I step into the room quietly, shifting the kid's weight in my arms. The place hasn't  
changed a bit. "So who's been housekeeping?" I ask softly so to not wake the  
sleeping child against me.   
  
"No one, really. One or two guys stayed here at some point, but they left right away.  
It's been vacant, mostly. It's all yours."   
  
"Thank you, mate. I owe you one." I drop the heavy bag at my feet, the muffled  
thump resounding in the empty room.   
  
The skinny man next to me fidgets. "So... this is the kid?"   
  
"Yeah..." I walk over to the stained mattress and carefully lay her down, the metal  
frame creaking under her small weight. She curls up comfortably and settles into the  
soft surface curving around her. This is more luxury than we've been able to afford in  
a long time. I stand up and crack my back satisfyingly. Hell of a long drive.   
  
"The slayer's kid, man... why'd you take her?"   
  
I peer at my samaritan and snort to myself. What am I gonna say? The truth? Not  
bloody likely. "I did her a favour."   
  
He nods, not prying. Seems like three decades of absence hasn't made him forget  
who can kick whose ass. I cock my head at him, noticing how he hasn't changed since  
our Sid Vicious years.   
  
Dawn is creeping closer, staining the sky with a faint pink. I stifle a yawn. "Gotta hit  
the hay, pal. See you tonight," I hint. He closes the door behind him after a quick  
goodbye. Old friend.   
  
I swivel around on my heels, feeling oddly pleased. It's good to be home. Fucked if I  
ever go back to Sunnydale.   
  
  
  
  
Sunrise is uneventful at best and finds me lying in bed, giving the ceiling a good  
stare. I'm quietly enjoying the warm feeling of my child's body nestled against my  
hip, breathing softly. Legs crossed at the ankles and one arm tucked under my head,  
I puff at my cigarette, flicking off ashes to the ground beside the bed. The building is  
strangely quiet as all its nocturnal occupants turn in for the day. Four stories below,  
commuters start their daily grind while I, for the first time in ages, allow myself to  
think back. I stare hard at the peeling plaster above me, and the memories takes  
shape effortlessly.   
  
The floorboards crack and my head snaps up, my eyes meeting hers. My hands are  
shaking, holding the infant to my chest protectively. I face her defiantly, not sure  
what to do. She looks beautiful, her face and body still weary from the birth, making  
her look so much older than she is. I can't help noticing her arms, a bit fatter than  
they were, or the curve of her belly still shyly pressing against her nightgown, or her  
breasts, ready to feed, to comfort, to soothe... There are no words. The conversation  
plays between us wordlessly.   
  
What are you doing here. - I heard you. You don't want her. - You're right. I'm giving  
her up. - I'm taking her. She'll be safe. - This isn't right. - I won't do it if you don't  
want me to. - Deafening silence. - Go.   
  
In a fleeting moment she gives me her blessing. Tells me with her eyes what she  
can't say. What she's too ashamed to admit. I walk passed her and out of her life,  
smelling her nauseating dismay. Sensing her trust. Leaving her to cry alone is the  
hardest thing I've ever had to do.   
  
I'm pulled out of my reverie when the kid snakes her small arm around my thigh and  
then resumes her peaceful slumber. I take in a sudden, hollow breath, blinking away  
the tears that have crept up on me.   
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. "Beware the Jabberwock" (3/?)

TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (3/?)   
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis   
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com   
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly   
ARCHIVE: My site - anywhere else, just ask.   
FEEDBACK: Why, yes please.   
DISCLAIMER: Harriet is mine, as well as the storyline. The rest belongs to Joss et al.  
No infringement is intended.   
RATING: this part, G.   
PAIRING: S/B, bad case of angst.   
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.   
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's  
daughter.   
  
Sorry it took so long so whip this one out.   
  
  
  
"Beware the Jabberwock"   
  
  
  
03.   
  
  
The living have no idea how easy they have it. Walking around, all puffed up and  
sated, oblivious to the fact that the world around them was custom-made for their  
weak little senses. Bloody pampered and still whining about how unfair life is. Really.  
Try unlife.   
  
While our foodstuff strolls about comfortably, we demons, perhaps a bit embittered at  
this, do our very best at making their lives miserable. It's an age-old tradition. A  
slightly perverted circle of life. Hide your kids: the meanies are out and they're  
famished.   
  
My senses are assaulted every day; it's not something I have a choice over. Every  
live body that walks by carries its own heavy, ripe stench which either teases my  
appetite, or suppresses it completely. Sunnydale was a sodding bouquet of roses  
compared to what the wind carries around New York City these days. You'd want to  
kill people too if you had to smell this. On hot days, it's enough to drive you mad.   
  
Then there's the noise. Will you bloody creatures shut up once in a while? The  
constant hum of conversation, music, tellies, cars, dogs... Everything melts together  
when I don't pay attention to it, but I like to imagine a life where absolute silence is  
an option. You know, be able to kick back and enjoy a quiet moment, perhaps only  
listening to her breathing, or the quiet play of her fingers against rough pages... They  
have it so easy. Makes me sick.   
  
All this to say, I bloody hate the supermarket. Smelly, loud, neon-lit supermarket. At  
some point it became ridiculous to break in every other day. I had to be more subtle  
with my transgressions. These days you'll find me here with the kid during late but  
regular business hours; I keep my mind off the pathetic portrait I must paint for my  
kind by letting myself be amused at how cranky people get when they're tired. The  
insomniac crowd and me, we get along famously.   
  
At the check-out line, I lean against the candy rack and pluck a tabloid magazine  
from the display before me. 'THEY WALK AMONG US'. I chuckle at the headline.  
Vampire gossip, brought to you by the makers of Batboy. Gotta give it to 'em.   
  
A sweet smell grabs my attention; a fetching mix of favourite, well-worn clothes,  
peppermint, and me. It becomes stronger, then a voice dances over it. "Daddy," she  
singsongs, and I peer down at her, standing next to me with her coat hanging off her  
elbows. She looks up at me from under her blonde lashes, a soft smirk gracing her  
face, not quite convincing but impossibly promising.   
  
I flip the magazine onto the purchases piled up on the counter, and extend my hand  
to her. She produces three watches, two wallets and a gold ring. I whistle approvingly  
at the loot, freeing the greenery from its leather folds and pocketing it. I give her  
back the rest. It will be pawned off tomorrow, except for the watches, which she will  
add to her growing collection. The busy cashier glares at us pointedly. I grin cockily at  
her, with no small amount of pride thrown in for good measure. My girl did good.   
  
My hand shoots down and I grab the small fist inching its way out of my pocket.  
"Harriet," I scold between clenched teeth, not looking at her. "Rule number one: no  
matter how cute you are luv, you do *not* pick another pick-pocket." I can practically  
hear her pout as her hand retreats.   
  
Quickly like only a young child can, she switches her attention to something else, in  
this case a steak I picked up for a later snack. She focuses on the thined blood  
pooling at a corner of the packaging. Her tiny index finger pokes softly at the  
shrink-wrap; not enough to pierce through it, but enough to leave a small indentation  
in the soft plastic. This mesmerizes me, this little thing she does, so much so that I  
am jerked back to awareness when the homeless man ahead of me dumps change on  
the steel counter, letting the little metal circles clatter about, impossibly loud. I bite  
back a comment, cursing myself for getting so easily distracted. Small wonder I'm  
still alive. What with the brat and all...   
  
"Who's Buffy Summers?" comes the small voice next to me, conversational.   
  
Suddenly I remember this one time, back when I was that fool William, when I found  
myself perched high up on a ladder. I was introduced to vertigo, and a stunningly  
strong attack of it at that. I'd trembled for days afterwards.   
  
Her words had the same effect.   
  
I am suddenly very aware of my body, and of the floor tilting under my feet.  
"W-Wha?" I croak out, the store swimming around me in a blurred whirl as I turn to  
her.   
  
I taught her too well; what was previously inside my pocket now flips easily between  
her fingers, tattered and familiar. I snatch the addressed envelope from her, tripping  
all over myself trying to sound casual. "She... she's... um." I clear my throat. Gah. "A  
friend. She's a friend." I shove the letter back into my pocket, where it's been for the  
past four years. My hand is trembling.   
  
I need a drink.   
  
  
  
TBC  



	4. "Beware the Jabberwock" (4/?)

TITLE: "Beware the Jabberwock" (4/?)   
AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis   
EMAIL: mc@verticalcrawl.com   
SITE: http://verticalcrawl.com/mostly   
ARCHIVE: My site - anywhere else, just ask.   
FEEDBACK: Why, yes please.   
DISCLAIMER: Harriet is mine, as well as the storyline. The rest belongs to Joss et al.  
No infringement is intended.   
RATING: this part, G.   
PAIRING: S/B, bad case of angst.   
SPOILERS: Through fifth season.   
SUMMARY: Set seven years in the future, Spike is alone in New York, raising Buffy's  
daughter.   
  
  
  
"Beware the Jabberwock"   
  
  
  
04.   
  
  
The cold liquid feels wonderful, its bitterness sloshing down the back of my throat,  
soothing. I hold the pint glass up to look at the blond froth sliding back down to cover  
the golden ale. I lick at my lips, savouring the tangy mix of alcohol and blood, heavy  
with iron. Ah yes. Unlife is sweet indeed.   
  
The kid is back home, somewhat babysat by this Fred chap, a 'friend', who knows not  
to upset me. I would rip the throat out of anyone who dared to even think a nasty  
thought about my angel, just as I had made short work of an unfortunate fellow who  
had tried his luck last week. My point was driven home effectively as the demon laid  
bleeding too profusely for a fast recovery, suffering much more from his neck wound  
than from whatever damage a stake could impair. I haven't had to utter so much as a  
word in warning since. She is safer with Fred -- or any other member of our newfound  
community -- now than were she to sit in a police precinct.   
  
After an easy hunt and feeding. I came to the Boar & Firkin, my favourite pub,  
conveniently located three blocks down from the hovel, in the 'good' neighbourhood,  
where yuppies slalom their Land Rovers across countless blocks of coffeehouses and  
bookstores. The place is quaint, perhaps a bit more than I'd expect myself to like, but  
it has its merits, not the least of which are the fine brews. The distraction is welcome,  
as I struggle with issues I haven't been forced to deal with in years.   
  
Buffy.   
  
I know I couldn't breeze through the child's upbringing without her coming up one  
way or another. I've been careful. The kid hasn't much cared for her roots, and I've  
cautiously fostered this attitude, believing it to be the best for all concerned. I want  
her to know. I want her to know who and what her mother is... how much I did... and  
how much I wanted to do for her, and for her daughter. But she'll have questions, and  
I don't think I'm prepared to answer them. Why did she give her up? I don't know,  
luv. I never really wanted to think about it. Most of me thinks that she probably had  
good reasons, but there's also a small voice in the back of my thoughts, whispering  
that maybe she was wrong, that abandoning a child for selfish reasons is inexcusable.  
For the first two years that single thought enraged me so it activated the sodding chip.  
Now chipless, the thought just makes me plain angry. Better to steer off this path,  
and to reminisce of times where the Slayer was all I wanted, when everything I did  
was either to impress her or to provoke her, as long as she looked at me. This seems  
like lifetimes ago. In a sense, it is.   
  
I haven't talked to her, or even seen her since that night I took Harriet. She doesn't  
know. We could die, both of us, and she'd hear about it months or years later, when  
the Council finally caught wind of the Big Bad finally biting it. Even in our nomadic  
wanderings, I've carefully avoided Sunnydale, and, just to make sure, pretty much all  
of the west coast.   
  
I peer at the rumpled envelope in front of me on the polished table, downing another  
cool mouthful of ale. The yellowed paper bears a hauntingly familiar address,  
scribbled carefully in black with my awkward handwriting, showing off its blaringly  
out-dated postage. Four years, almost five. Words, put together haphazardly,  
explaining why I'd done it. Newer pages, added along the way, meaning to reassure  
that her progeny was in good hands. I can't help my own nature, but she knows how  
protective I can be, and that leads me to believe she trusts me. If she ever even  
thinks of us.   
  
Her daughter is being provided for. She is clothed, feed, taught to and loved beyond  
words. I might not be able to provide the white picket fence and soccer practices, but  
this kind of life, I find, is grossly overrated. She is happy and healthy. That's all that  
matters. It's all there, written down for her own peace of mind.   
  
But I can't bring myself to mail it. No matter what I tell myself, I'm sure we're better  
off leave her out of it. We've always managed.   
  
Why stir up trouble?   
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
